All was quiet in Tark and Mara’s penthouse (in the most ruinously expensive borough of Dublin city) save a seductive hum of contentment. Mara was reclining on her brand-new 16th century fainting couch following her weekly meal, languorously turning the pages of a glossy magazine. Tark had been miming at the baby grand piano for twenty minutes. Nobody could mime the piano quite like Tark. It was one of the reasons he was so popular at parties.
A promo on the 76-inch wall-mounted, razor-thin flatscreen caught Tark’s eye. He halted his silent rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Chanson Triste.
“There! I knew it. Another one on BBC2.”
“Another what, darling?”
Mara set aside the magazine to redirect her attention to her husband, peering at him regally through a bejewelled pince-nez.
“Another documentary targeting the super-rich, my pickled lemon,” he said. He waved at the TV, where the programme titles were embossed upon a dated pinstripe suit…
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